


The Direct Route

by soulshrapnel



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Getting Together, Hanahaki Disease, In-universe prejudice, Power Imbalance, Treat, everyone is a legal adult though, tarkin is slow on the uptake sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29267292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulshrapnel/pseuds/soulshrapnel
Summary: Grand Moff Tarkin's brilliant young protegé is suddenly coughing up flowers. He hasn't the faintest idea why.
Relationships: Natasi Daala/Wilhuff Tarkin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	The Direct Route

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ekevka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ekevka/gifts).



> I never imagined myself writing a hanahaki fic, but it was on your list of likes along with this ship and suddenly the mental image appeared fully formed in my head :D
> 
> (With regards to the "in-universe prejudice" tag, it's not a heavy theme but there are brief mentions of sexism and some not-so-brief mentions of Tarkin thinking Daala's home planet is a stupid place.)

Grand Moff Tarkin's conversations with Natasi Daala were growing to be his favorite part of the working day. Of course it wasn't because she was young and pretty, nor because of how she seemed to hang on his every word; Tarkin was above such things. Daala was clever and competent; she had _potential;_ she was rapidly approaching the point where she'd be winning all his wars for him. That was what Tarkin liked. Obviously.

That was why he had lingered a little bit longer than necessary on the bridge of the _Executrix,_ after congratulating her on her promotion to Captain. She had donned the new insignia patch corresponding to her rank, and she stood straight, looking out at the blue of hyperspace, rather than directly at him. Her brilliant red hair, shorn regulation-short, provided an arresting spot of color in the room.

"The insurgents are practiced at using the terrain to their advantage," she was saying, dissecting her latest disagreement with the admiral above her. "I still say they're-"

As she spoke, she unthinkingly turned to him, holding out a hand as though they were ordinary friends outside the military and she might grasp his arm. He pointedly took a tiny step away.

Tarkin had been stern with Daala about things like this, not because it actually mattered for winning a war but because it mattered for keeping her in the military for long enough to win one. Daala was from a dreary, low-class little planet and even with her genius for tactics, military etiquette hadn't seemed to come naturally to her. He had impressed upon her before that it was unseemly to be overly familiar with one's superiors here. It would lead to people making the sorts of assumptions that could sink Daala's nascent career before it began. Assumptions that were certainly untrue.

She quickly realized her mistake and turned away again, eyes fixed out the window, hands clasping behind her back. Daala was, at least, a quick learner.

In just a week, Captain Daala would have command of a whole destroyer, one part of a small fleet on a pacification mission near the Expansion Region. It would be the first mission of that nature for her. They both knew what it meant fo her career, not to mention for Tarkin's own military goals, and he wanted to make sure it went well.

"-going to use the moon as cover," Daala continued, having faltered only slightly. Then abruptly she coughed, bringing the back of her black-gloved hand up against her mouth. She recovered after a moment and drew her hand back behind her back quickly. Almost too quickly, as if it embarrassed her.

Tarkin eyed her. Generally, the Imperial military's medical inoculations prevented common colds, allergies, and similar ailments from traveling among the crew. But there were always exceptions, people whose inoculations didn't take for whatever reason, or occasional mutations to the usual viruses. Or perhaps her throat was simply dry. The embarrassment was more notable to him, more of a cause for worry than the cough itself.

"You were saying?" he prompted coolly, when she didn't immediately pick her train of thought back up.

"But of course we can use a pincer maneuver," said Daala, recovering. "Though I still say it would be better if we just blew up the moon. That would be the direct route."

Tarkin smiled slightly. "Indeed. Have you had that cough long?"

To his surprise, she flushed. Daala made herself hard to read on purpose, and the change in color was only slight, a nigh-imperceptible darkening of her cheeks as her face remained immobile. But he'd been around her long enough to notice such things.

"No, sir. Just dry air, sir," she said, and he knew immediately that it was a lie.

Lying about a medical condition was grounds for expulsion from the Imperial military, particularly if the condition was potentially contagious, or if it might affect an officer's judgment in the field. Tarkin had thought better of her. But he - unlike the people who'd written the regulations - understood the sorts of tooth-and-claw environments where people like Daala grew up. An animal that admitted to illness or weakness would be singled out from the herd. A woman like her would feel the need to pretend to be strong.

He could forgive that, so long as it resolved quickly.

Tarkin looked away from her, clasping his own hands behind his back. "Then you'll return to your quarters for the remainder of the day to hydrate. And you'll review Imperial Navy Regulations thirty-four point three through thirty-four point six. Dismissed."

He wasn't sure if he was punishing her or covering for her. Both, he supposed. But as a flicker of dismay passed over her features, he knew she'd only heard the former.

"Yes, sir," she said, and moved to salute, but instead doubled over in another, harder cough.

When she drew her hand away from her mouth, Tarkin noticed a strange detail. There was suddenly a flower petal, dainty and purple and a little wet with phlegm, standing out against the black of her glove.

As she turned to go, he watched her surreptitiously wiping the petal away.

*

Over the next several days, the problem grew worse. Individual petals, clumps of them, in one disturbing case a whole spike of lavender which fell wetly to the floor. Daala continued, increasingly implausibly, to insist that nothing was wrong. Tarkin was dismayed. It was possible she hadn't broken regulations - it was possible she'd already discussed it privately with a meddroid, but if that was the case, he still ought to have been informed. Someone wasn't doing their duty here, and maybe it was him. Maybe he was covering for patient zero of a potentially deadly, absurd, flowery epidemic.

In consternation, he found himself logging in anonymously to a data console at a time when he wouldn't be observed, and typing in the phrase, _coughing up flowers._

To his relief, there was an article on this in the Imperial data banks. The title was _Belsmuth Flower Disease._ That sounded about right - Daala was from Botajef, in the Outer Rim's Belsmuth sector. He clicked on it.

 _A rare genetic disorder,_ said the article, _found among natives of Botajef, Irmenu, and a handful of other Belsmuth Sector worlds._

Tarkin raised his eyebrows. A genetic disorder - that was not good; her screening upon admission to the Navy ought to have caught it if the screeners were competent, but it was better than the alternatives. It wasn't contagious. He read on.

_Carriers of the Flower Disease remain asymptomatic until adolescence or adulthood, or in many cases throughout their lifespan. However, when a carrier falls in love, the sudden flood of vasopressin-derived neurotransmitters and hormones triggers an onset of symptoms, which manifest as a persistent cough and flower-like growths in the lungs._

_There is no known medical cure for the Flower Disease, though pain and respiratory difficulties can be managed to a degree. Full remission is achieved only when the object of a carrier's affection shows them affection in return, thus stabilizing the chemical imbalances that caused the symptoms. Otherwise, severe cases can progress to the point of permanent debility or death._

Tarkin frowned at the screen. He had never liked Botajef - a planet of unusually weak, servile people from which Captain Daala had somehow miraculously emerged, like a jewel from a slag pit. (Like a flower out of filth, his mind suggested, but that was too on-the-nose.) It was just like a person from Botajef to fall over and die from a little thing like heartbreak. Daala was bold, strong and as unlike most of her home planet as it was possible to be, but it seemed some part of that native weakness had finally emerged. It was no wonder it embarrassed her.

It was, however, fixable. All they had to do was find whatever strapping young man had caught Daala's attentions - _or woman,_ he would normally have added, but there were precious few of those in the Imperial Navy - and convince him to return them. Everyone on the _Executrix_ feared Tarkin. The convincing ought not to be difficult to do.

But as he closed the console and cleared its history, he felt a strange sadness. It wasn't _jealousy_ \- Tarkin was too old for Daala anyway, and also her commanding officer, and jealousy would have been unseemly for all the reasons he'd already explained in detail. Tarkin was above such things, no matter how pretty she was and how admirable her mind. He only didn't like to think of personal matters distracting from her duties, that was all. Particularly in a place as sexist as the Imperial Navy, engaging in personal relationships would pose risks. But the alternative was clearly no better, and she was strong enough to handle some risk.

And the sooner they took care of this, the sooner she would be back at her duties, healthy and competent, brilliantly winning his wars for him.

That was what mattered. Surely.

*

"Captain Daala," said Tarkin - appearing, arms crossed, in the doorway to her personal quarters. She'd only recently been promoted high enough to have private quarters at all, and the little gray room barely showed signs of being inhabited. Everything was tidy and clean, but the waste bin was full - and he could spy the tips of purple flower petals peeking out from under its lid.

She snapped to attention and nervously saluted. "Sir. Is there a problem, sir?"

He waited until the door shut behind him before he answered. "I'm wondering why you didn't see fit to inform me that you were a carrier of the Belsmuth Flower Disease. And why you thought so little of me that you believed I wouldn't notice. That is what this is, isn't it?"

She supressed a cough, her ribs heaving with the effort, then straightened again. "It's nothing, sir. It's a mild case. I am capable of carrying out my duties. When the fleet leaves, I won't be - around anyone relevant, and the symptoms will ease."

That was logical as far as it went. The file in the data banks had said that, until the symptoms resolved, they were strongest around the object of the patient's affection. But this was clearly _not_ a mild case, if she was struggling like this even with no one around but him. Soon enough people were going to complain.

"I want you in top fighting form," said Tarkin. "Of course you'll push through an illness if necessary. But I believe I've also taught you to seek the most thorough and direct solutions to any tactical problem. I take it you've confessed your feelings to whoever it is that caused this for you? And they weren't interested? Is that it?"

She hesitated, which was all the answer he needed.

"No, sir," she said. "Not that it's any of your business, but I didn't need to ask. He's made it clear he considers such things - unseemly."

Tarkin took a stern step towards her, which somehow set her off coughing again, harder than before. The file had discussed this, too. A direct rejection, especially a cruel or dismissive one, could worsen the symptoms. There was a logic to avoiding such things, but it was a coward's logic. He had taught her better.

"Did I teach you," he said, "not to confront threats directly?"

She had not stopped coughing. Petal after petal fell out. "Sir, I-" she managed, but her own lungs cut off the rest of it.

"You are crucial to this mission's success," said Tarkin, implacable. "You are crucial to _me,_ and anyone serving in this Navy ought to be honored to have your attention. Tell me the name of this boy, and I will personally tell him what I think of anyone short-sighted enough to endanger a mission-"

"Sir-" she tried to interrupt, but she was coughing too hard to even speak, and he was too incensed to let himself be interrupted. Her own physical weakness seemed to enrage her, and she grabbed a hold of Tarkin's sleeve to pull herself upright - a gesture he would never have allowed in front of the rest of the crew.

"-because he is squeamish about what's _seemly-_ " Tarkin ranted on.

She yanked herself upwards and kissed him.

He was startled into stillness, shutting his eyes reflexively before they fluttered open again in surprise. Her lips were unpracticed but soft, warm, and there was a strong floral taste. Her hand tightened on his arm, and he belatedly remembered to kiss back for a moment before she pulled away, taking a deep breath in, no longer coughing.

"Oh," said Tarkin.

Everything suddenly made a lot more sense.

Daala's green eyes were fixed on him, careful and tense. "Was that sufficiently direct, sir?"

In answer, he pulled her in and kissed her again.

This time he had regained his wits enough to do it properly. He cradled her head in one hand, feeling the short bristles of her hair. He moved his lips carefully against the delicious heat of her, and she responded, pressing closer, as quick a study at this as she'd been at her military work. Tarkin supposed he should have tried this much earlier, if he hadn't been telling himself all that nonsense about being above such things. He wasn't too old for her after all, hah.

He listened carefully to her breathing, clear and unobstructed. When she came up for air, her hand unconsciously went to the base of her throat, and he imagined roots receding, petals magically dissolving away.

"Feel any better?" he asked, a triumphant little smile crossing his face.

She took a long, deep breath and then decisively nodded. "Yes, sir."

"We'll discuss this at greater length when you've returned from your mission," said Tarkin. He could already see all the unfortunate parts of this unfolding behind his eyes, the things he'd been trying so hard to avoid. Secrecy, scandal, fruitless attempts to explain the situation to whoever was in charge of punishing fraternization these days. But Tarkin was the Grand Moff of the entire Outer Rim. He _could_ confront those threats directly. "There are logistic issues, but they won't be insurmountable. Do you need anything right now?"

"Well," said Daala. She looked around self-consciously at the paltry furniture of her small set of quarters, and then she looked back at him, squaring her shoulders, mirroring his smile. "I've got some time, sir. We could do that again."


End file.
